The Martyr of Eden
by SashaLikaMusica
Summary: Iris was the only one who noticed that Amy was only unconscious, not dead. When she wins, against all odds, an impulse makes her rescue the other girl. They're shattered, empty shells of human beings, and yes, Amy tried to stab her once upon a time, but everyone else is dead, and no one alive could possibly understand the horrors they've endured. They're all each other has.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: This is what happens when you watch Brittany Snow-centric horror movies and can't deal with the feelings. I got a little obsessed, and this is what happened. This is chapter one. If any of you are wondering, yes, Blind Faith will be updated extremely soon.  
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 **I'd love to hear your thoughts.**

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She can't believe she thought this was a good idea.

There's no question that it's the stupidest, most reckless thing she's ever done; her mother _told_ her, time and time again, from the time she was old enough to understand the words, that she should never, _ever_ , under _any_ circumstances, accept invitations from strangers. Especially not strange men, and _especially_ not strange men in influential-looking suits with odd nervous tics and quick tongues. She's mature, she's conscientious, and she's no fool, so she doesn't have a reasonable explanation for why she's here except for that she's desperate, which the Iris she was before the accident would have thought was a terrible excuse.

Something about being responsible for her own life, about being expected to provide for herself and take control of situations, had deluded her into believing that she was on an even footing with all other adults who, in all honesty, were just like she was – delusional, volatile humans who just happened to have reached an age that declared them responsible and, somehow, trustworthy. She'd thought that since she was expected to take charge of things at home, to assume the responsibility of her brother's wellbeing as well as her own, she could at least handle every situation with maturity, no matter how challenging.

It's a delusion that has landed her in a locked room, pinned at gunpoint to a chair with a stab wound in her ribcage and seven other _adults_ , all of whom are dead, dying, or about to be either. The situation is gory and terrifying and horrific, but they all seem to slowly be coming to terms with the fact that there is no escaping it. That recognition has at least half of them cowering where they sit, but Iris, despite her overwhelming fear and the pain from her stab wound, is sitting up as straight as she can manage. She determined after the first round of shocks that if she's going to die in this room, she is going to do it with dignity, not reduced to the most pitiful, barest wreck of a human being that most of them are dwindling into.

Then again, she recently struck three deep, bloody gashes into another person's back, so her integrity is already out on a limb. The person she was when she stepped into this room is gone; she won't even experience life from that viewpoint again. This situation has forced upon her a perspective that she wasn't even aware existed within her – she's _Iris_ , for God's sakes, or she _was_ an hour and a half ago, and that Iris would have never dreamed of hurting another human being, or allowing another human being to be hurt in front of her. She had thought that she had been desperate, engulfed in suffering, to accept the invitation to this dinner, but looking back, she knows now that she hadn't known anything of desperation then.

 _This_ is desperation; _this_ is suffering. She's trapped in a room like an animal in a cage; she's watched an old woman bleed out after begging for her life, and a dignified war veteran crumple to the floor and die of shock and agony. She's electrocuted herself, and watched several other people do the same, and she knows now that all but one of them are going to end up dead or injured to a point that will prevent them from continuing. Just hours ago, her reality was that her brother was sick and that she, a responsible, loving, _adult_ older sister, was going to do everything in her power to save him.

Now the tables have been turned, and she's fighting tooth and nail for her own life while simultaneously trying to avoid causing others pain. Her new reality, the one that she has no choice but to accept, is that she is going to watch some of the people in front of her die. She is going to watch them suffer. _She_ is going to suffer; she is going to be brutally injured and humiliated, and forced to go against every empathetic instinct that she has in order to save her own life. Being coerced into eating steak for money seems ludicrous now; what she wouldn't _give_ for things to be that simple again. She is no longer fighting against personal beliefs; she is grappling with her every animal instinct. Her morality is telling her to sacrifice herself to suffer on the behalf of others, but her rising primal urges tell her that it's no good; they will be hurt, and they will die, and she might be an instrument that furthers their agony, but they will suffer regardless of her involvement.

And no matter how desperately she wants to be good, to be a sort of martyr that would rather die than hurt another person, her reflexes won't let her. Deep down, she wants to _live_ , and despite how proud she once was of her self-control, it is slowly dawning on her that even the most remarkable restrain is nothing in the face of primitive impulses. If her inner animal wants to survive, it's going to do everything it can, and nothing that she can do will stop that. It's an odd feeling, being completely unable to control herself; it's like she's outside of her body, and there's something else attached to her that she didn't give permission to exist.

Looking around at the varying degrees of agony and stoniness displayed on the faces around the table, she knows that she has a choice, even though it isn't really up to her; there are five of them left, and she is either going to watch four other people die, or she is going to go.

She doesn't want to lose her dignity; she _will not_ let them humiliate her, but her grasp is slipping. She had been a college student, for Christ's sake – she thought she knew all of the dirty little secrets of the world; that she was experienced and aware and even a little adept at all things taboo, but sitting here, she wants her innocence back, because that's what she had been; she had been an innocent, naïve little girl who knew nothing of horror. She thinks of Travis, who had seen war, and yet _still_ hadn't experienced cruelty on this level, and she wants to cry with shame for ever thinking that she understood pain. She wants to curl up in a ball and scream and cry and press her hands over her ears until everything goes away and her brain melts out the realization of what has happened, but it won't do her any good. If anything, it will just get her shot or stabbed or whipped or worse, and if she's going to put any energy into sticking this out, she doesn't want to endure any more pain than she's already been forced to.

She thought she was tired before this; she thought that she was familiar with exhaustion brought on by caring for an ailing brother and feeling the loss of her parents and the weight of responsibility and grief. She didn't. That was mere weariness.

Iris is _drained_ ; exhausted by the effort of staying alive, of holding herself together and not going berserk; of _not_ curling up in a rocking, screaming ball in the corner. Of not begging for death.

It might not matter; she might be dying very, very soon, but if she is, she isn't going to lose her humanity. She hopes. God, she hopes for it, she _prays_ for it, because she hadn't been the biggest believer before tonight, but after seeing what she's seen, it's all she can do to hope that Linda has found peace and that these sick bastards, whenever they die, will burn in the deepest, most unreachable depths of hell.

She disagrees with herself a little, because how can she wish hell upon someone when hell is what she's experiencing at this very moment? How can she wish that upon someone when she knows what it is to experience agony? Yet, how can she wish anything _else_ for someone who has brought them all such pain?

She can't think about it; she _can't_ , not if she wants to live through the night (she wants to, but she doesn't, because how can she go on knowing what she now knows?) She can't think; she can only do. She discreetly slips her shoes off beneath the table, and when the signal is given, she moves on pure adrenaline and desperation. She has no idea what she'll do if she gets out, but she _can't_ stay here. She can't withstand it. So she battles her way blindly to the door, and she runs faster than she ever could without this kind of terror driving her; she darts and skids and hides, moving with pure fear, not knowing anything other than that _she has to get away._ There isn't another option. And then Doctor Barden is there, and she's almost safe, but then suddenly there's a gunshot and he's dead and Julian is pinning her to the floor, biting and pinching and ripping at her flesh, and his hands are travelling somewhere they definitely shouldn't be, and she doesn't have the energy for _this_ to happen, too; not on top of everything else. This is too much and simultaneously almost nothing, but she's kicking and screaming and screaming and _screaming_ , not knowing if there's anybody to hear and save her, just _screaming_ because he's heavier than she is, and he's hurting her, and she's probably stronger but she's _exhausted_ , and what else can she do but fall back on an instinctive reaction that she can't control?

Eventually, it's over; someone else – an enemy – is down there with them, and Julian is no longer on top of her, and it's all she can do to stand and follow Bevens back into the dining room to the dark wolf she knows, where Cal is lying dead and everybody else is sitting in various states of shock, and even Amy looks like she's about to vomit. Shepard makes some ridiculously humiliating comment followed by an apology and a hand on her skin that she definitely doesn't want. She doesn't want him to _touch_ her, because even though he's caused all of this misery, he hasn't laid a hand on them himself, and _she doesn't want him to touch her,_ but she doesn't move, because she knows that to react will mean further pain, and she's hurting enough as it is.

She watches a man's hand get blown off, sees him go into cardiac arrest and his eyes go blank right there on the bloodstained tarp in front of her. She holds her breath until it's her turn again, and after seeing the flesh get torn from someone so brutally that it makes his heart fail, she doesn't need to consider her options any further. She's always been one to play it safe, and although it could be wiser to take a chance here when there are so few to take, the universe is brutal enough. She's not going to mess with fate; not now. Not ever again, if she makes it out of this alive.

She will never be able to describe the level of desperation that comes with losing her most basic faculty and not being able to save herself. She can only grip at the sides of the barrel in something that desperation is too weak a word to describe, feeling her mind go fuzzy and her lungs nearly collapse; feeling the tingle of her blood as it grows frantic, knowing that it's been a long time, _too_ long, and feeling vaguely that she'll probably sustain some brain damage from this, and then there's _air_ , and it's miraculous. She never knew how _lucky_ she was to be able to take it in and have control of her own survival in the most basic of ways, and she vows that no matter whether she lives through the night or only for another thirty seconds, she will never take that ability for granted again. It's a gift like she's never known.

She gets to watch that gift be stolen from Amy, who despite her bravado and psychopathic front looks like she might actually be about to shed a tear; she sees just how cruel Shepard is to bring all of their weaknesses into this. She watches as Amy struggles, almost immediately in the stage that she was in right before she got pulled out, and she feels the _rage_ rise up in her at the unfairness of it all, because yes, they're probably all going to die, but the least he can do is offer them a decent chance at trying to survive.

She watches as Amy's body goes limp and is laid on the floor, and she's startled but doesn't let it on when she notices that Bevens isn't taking her pulse correctly; that a faint flutter is visible in Amy's left wrist, hidden from Bevens' view but perfectly visible from where she's sitting. Amy's not dead, only unconscious, and she prays that she will remain so until she has been left wherever it is they've been taking them. Maybe she'll live; she won't be able to escape in her weakened state, but she might live just a few minutes longer, and at this rate, that's all that any of them can hope for.

She watches Lucas slit his eye open, and then she's hearing that they're free to walk away, with no prize, but alive, but suddenly a gun is being placed in her hands, and she's horrified with herself, but she knows what she's going to do before Lucas even begins to speak. It registers with her when her fingers curl around the trigger that even though she's technically about to win, she's just lost, because the last ounce of her humanity has been destroyed. She tries to console herself with the knowledge that she is doing this for Raleigh, but she's about to kill someone, someone who has a chance at survival, when she's spent the entire night being horrified as she watches people be stripped of their lives, and she knows the moment she pulls the trigger that she will never be able to reconcile herself with that.

It's when the deed has been done that she finally breaks. She shatters, and she can almost feel every fraction of each atom that makes up her being scatter to the far corners of the universe. She lays down the gun and that is when she begins to sob; she curls up and covers her ears and screams and grips and pulls her hair so hard that it nearly comes out in massive hunks in her fists. Shepard lets her sit there and break, and it's finally the recognition that he's amusing himself by entertaining her needs that snaps her back into a shell of herself. She won't let him sit and watch her break down into the destruction that he's caused, and so she sits back up and asks to leave. He starts to call for the driver, but she says _no_ , that she'd prefer it if the man went to get her car from her house and brought it to the door. She will not accept anything more from him.

He permits it, and the driver goes, and she is given the suitcase full of cash in amounts that she's sure even ATMs don't contain. He then leaves her alone, thank God, because she forces out a meek thank you to restrain herself from ripping out his throat, and it's when she's standing alone in the hallway waiting for the driver to return with her car that she remembers Amy.

Remembering passing a halfway-open door on her way down the hall, she sets the suitcase down and retreats back down the corridor a little ways, fighting down the urge to run screaming out the door rather than return into the depths of the house. She finds the room easily enough, and when she pushes the door open, she feels the bile rise in the back of her throat at the sight of her companions laid out across the floor of the living room like dolls, the bowl with their keys and phones in it on the table, as though mocking them.

It takes her a minute to stumble over the bodies and locate Amy, who has been stuffed unceremoniously in the corner. The brunette is splayed out on her back with her neck bent out at an awkward angle, but a quick press of her fingers to the soaking wet skin of her neck is enough to tell Iris that she's still alive. For one weak moment, she sits back on her heels among the bodies and the blood and allows the torment in her mind to take over – Amy _stabbed_ her, after all, and if she takes her, there's sure to be retribution, and if she leaves right now, she can clear out with her money and save Raleigh and try desperately to live the rest of her life without reminder of this night (though it's an impossible feat), but then the tip of one of Amy's pinkies twitches, and Iris is awash with shame. She just spent all night fighting for her life while all the others around her did the same; she grappled with her humanity and the urge to not be the survivor at the expense of others' lives, and here she is with the opportunity to save someone, and she's consider not taking it?

It's all she needs to gather the unconscious young woman in her arms and struggle to her feet. She has no idea how she does it, but she manages to stagger over the freshly laid-out corpses and down the hall without detection, and out the door into the night. Seeing that her car has been brought out front, she doesn't spare a glance behind her before taking off down the walk. She shovels Amy into the backseat and trips around to the driver's side, and doesn't bother buckling in before speeding off. She's just experienced something more horrific than she could ever previously conceive of; if she's going to die not wearing a seatbelt, so be it. It would be ironic and ridiculous, and honestly, she might even appreciate it if she did.

She doesn't bring Amy in right away when they arrive back at the house; she needs to take a moment to recuperate – not long enough to allow herself to think, but long enough to get some energy back for the task ahead.

When she finds Raleigh after her shower, it's almost the thing that breaks her – she just endured this entire night for his sake – but something about the mindset she's been forced into keeps her from entirely shattering again. Raleigh's dead. Many other people are dead. She almost was. If there's anything she knows, it's that she can't bring them back, and she's also beginning to understand that whether other people choose to live or die is out of her hands, no matter how horrible it is. She could have chosen either way, and she knows that nothing could have stopped her from dying tonight if she'd wanted it badly enough.

At least she didn't have to watch him die.

The sight of his black, cold, still face is all she needs to make her decision. She trips through the house in a daze, tossing random objects into a suitcase – spatulas, tee shirts, a camera; a stray sock and a book she's never read. Enough clothes make it in for her to wear, but honestly, she couldn't care less if she went naked. Clothes are the least of her concerns.

It ends up being that she packs several outfits, a random assortment of objects, and the old picture of her with her mother and father. She bring one of Raleigh, but vaguely promises to herself that she will never look at it. She disconnects the phone wires, yanks the TV cable out, unplugs the stove and refrigerator, and stumbles back to Raleigh's room. She presses a clumsy kiss to his clammy forehead, pauses to rip a CD from the collection above his bed, and totters with her suitcase back out the front door. She leaves the house unlocked so that the cops will be able to get in in a few days when the hospital hasn't heard from them.

She piles everything back into the car and takes off, and doesn't stop driving until they've reached the nearest city of any remarkable size. There, she stops at a Seven Eleven to change Amy out of her bloody clothes in case they get pulled over, almost crawls next door to a Hilton, and books a room, slamming down at least eight thousand in cash that will hold them for a couple weeks and that makes the receptionist gasp. She seizes the key without paying any attention to the woman's shocked expression and drives around back to the utility entrance. Somehow, she manages to drag the suitcase of money, her duffel, and Amy all the way up to the seventh floor, where she throws everything down on the floor of the room and gets Amy settled on top of one of the double beds.

Then she goes into the large, luxurious, pristinely clean bathroom and vomits for hours on end.


	2. Chapter 2

She's sitting on the floor of the hotel bathroom hugging her knees when the screaming starts.

A quick glance at the clock tells her that it's nine in the morning. She hasn't slept in twenty-seven hours, but she feels no inclination to lie down and rest. She can't decide which is worse; facing her own waking thoughts, or the nightmares she's sure to have. She can't escape either. To sleep also seems ridiculous, somehow; trivial, after everything that has occurred. It's a basic, normal human function, and she's been stripped of those in the past twelve hours in a way that she hadn't even known was possible.

Amy has clearly woken up and discovered for herself that everything is a horrific mess. And that she isn't dead, which Iris fully understands can come as something of a surprise.

Iris can barely muster the energy to stand and walk the whole way into the bedroom from where she sits. Her legs tremble as she makes her way to the edge of the bed, where Amy is curled screaming around a pillow with her eyes wide and staring. She can't see; that part is immediately evident, and it's only when Iris grabs her shoulders and gives her a firm shake that she seems to be able to come back to herself. She freezes, keeping a white-knuckled grip on the pillowcase, but her dark eyes, which are desperately moving in every direction, remain vacant.

Iris's stomach doesn't even bother to twinge uncomfortably at that realization. Honestly, it's a contradiction of basic physiology that Amy is even breathing right now; it's a little early to tell if she's retained any kind of awareness or advanced thought processes, so the fact that she can't see is the least of their issues. Iris wouldn't go so far as to say that she's lucky to be alive – to say that implies that there is something good about living, and right now, nothing particularly enjoyable about existence comes to mind – but essentially, it will be a miracle if blindness is the only damage she's sustained from this ordeal (Iris isn't sure what her current stance on miracles is, either).

For God's sake, she drowned; to retain any semblance of normalcy is asking a bit much.

"Amy." She doesn't have the strength to find any other words, and even if she did, what's she supposed to say? That she's sorry? That they're okay? That they're safe? She's never been the lying kind, and though any previous inhibitions of hers have been erased, she simply doesn't have the energy to start spewing falsifications now. They're not okay – and in all likelihood, they never will be – they most definitely aren't safe, and she doesn't have any energy to spare for her own feelings, much less someone else's, so apologetic isn't something that's remotely on her radar.

"Rss," is the mumbled response. Iris presumes that it's an attempt at her name, but truly, it's pretty much entirely unintelligible. Amy's voice is garbled and frantic, and though her tone is somewhat questioning, she can't seem to form her words into an actual query.

And if she could, what would she ask? There are so many possible questions, and none of them do anything to help their situation. Yes, they escaped. No, they're not all right. Yes, they're alive, but that status could last months or only another minute. Iris doesn't even have the mental capacity to start considering the fact that any number of different people could come after them – police, hospital officials, the FBI, or, God forbid, Shepard. They're the worst sort of fugitives – people who have done everything and nothing wrong, depending on who you counsel. Desperate, but tortured; in full fight-or-flight mode, depending on instincts. Iris is aware enough to know that her body is in charge now; if it were up to her, the old her, anyways, she wouldn't be alive right now.

In the absence of some deity swooping down to grant her the clarity of words, she settles for a simple, "Yeah," and hopes that it's enough to satisfy her companion.

Amy's eyes are focused somewhere several inches above her left shoulder. Iris can't stand the sight of her vacant eyes staring off in the direction that she thinks is accurate, so she grasps the girl's narrow chin and turns her head to face her straight on. Amy blinks needlessly, but makes a valiant attempt at focusing her nonexistent vision.

"Mmcandsee?"

"No, you can't see. Can you hear me?"

"Mm. Rss?"

"Yeah, it's Iris."

"Ssevybody lse?"

"Dead."

"Mm. Ehr er we?"

"Hotel room. You want water?" The response is Amy lurching forward to throw up all over the rug beside the bed. Iris is no stranger to vomit by this point – in fact, she finds the consistency of its presence to be somewhat comforting – but she's never seen someone throw up with their eyes open before, and it's a little disconcerting. She steps back calmly out of the way and swipes the ice bucket out from under the bedside cabinet and hands it to Amy without a word. The brunette grips it like a lifeline and retches a few more times before leaning back. She doesn't bother to wipe her mouth.

"Ice going." Her words are a little clearer, probably due to relieving a little stress. Despite the fact that she knows it's not true, Iris gets the distinct impression that Amy's throat had been waterlogged and that vomiting had allowed her to clear out her vocal chords to an extent.

It doesn't matter, though; she's not about to go puzzling out the situation. She's breathing; Amy's breathing, and right now, she's taking it one inhalation at a time. They're there, with their feet on the vomit-soaked carpet, and they both know that they're there. They might not be in three seconds, but they are right now, and that's the only significance they have to cling to right now.

"Nice going with what?"

"Ater. Don' fucking wan wadder. Drown. Dumbass." Iris takes it as a positive sign that the only words Amy is able to clearly articulate are insults. She would also take a moment to close her eyes and sigh at her own stupidity, but she doesn't have the luxury of devoting thought to her own actions anymore. She can only act on reflex; forget hoping that it gets her somewhere. There's nowhere to go. She offered water to a woman who drowned in a barrel not twelve hours ago, and in all honesty, it doesn't matter in the least. In the past, she would have berated herself for the slip-up, but at this point, it isn't important. Perfection, politeness, and consideration are no longer on her radar.

"Right." She doesn't apologize; sorry will get them nowhere. At this point, the words are meaningless. In fact, when she considers it, they always have been – they don't do anything to help or hurt a situation. She doesn't have time for something so insignificant.

She steps away from the bed, tugging the ice bucket out of Amy's vice-like grasp. She doesn't know how long they're going to be here for; the future is a muddled concept far out of her reach. Personally, she doesn't care if the room smells like vomit or not, but she doesn't want the hotel management to think something suspicious is going on. The last thing they need is attention.

At some point – maybe in the inconceivable future that is tomorrow – she will be able to devote some brainpower to rectifying their situation. Whether that involves finding them food or a place to go, she doesn't know, and she doesn't particularly care. Last night, she managed to escape with their lives by moving on autopilot; that ability has died out with the onslaught of thought that inevitably tormented her while she sat curled on the bathroom floor last night. She's not even sure she can remember most of it. Either way, she needs to try to function at that level again if she wants to prevent the hotel staff from discovering two decaying bodies when the money she put on the room runs out.

She changes tactics.

"Can you stand?"

"Eh," Amy responds. Iris takes it as a perhaps, and stoops down accordingly to offer support if it's needed. She stops when Amy voices something that she thinks is a question.

"Why are you getting up?" she replies. Amy grunts in agreement. "To get you cleaned up." Amy actually manages to let out a derisive snort.

"Id you et leaned up?" she questions, and she almost sounds amused. Iris straightens back up.

"No, but you're covered in your own vomit."

"Oo too." Automatically, Iris glances down, and realizes that she is, indeed, drenched in vomit – whether it's hers or Amy's or some combination, she doesn't know. She doesn't care, and she's willing to bet her whole new suitcase of cash that Amy doesn't either.

"Yeah. So I'll get cleaned up too," she responds, not quite knowing what else to say, and proceeds to start to wrap an arm around the other girl's ribcage. She isn't prepared for Amy to violently flinch at the touch, or for another round of heaving to start. It makes sense, of course; Amy can't see her to anticipate the contact, and she's probably had quite enough of hands on her when she's not wanting or expecting them.

Iris leans her body away from the sudden gush of vomit, but somehow, she doesn't release the girl, and in fact ends up tightening her grasp. Her fingertips press through layers of puke-drenched fabric into frigid skin, her elbow tightening beneath Amy's shoulder, and the brunette shudders and coughs again, but doesn't try to escape. Iris waits for her to stop shivering before attempting to move. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she's aware that neither of them are strong enough to stand up, let alone support each other if they manage to stay on their feet, but that fact doesn't register with her until she attempts to bring both of them into an upright position. She presses her fingers harder into cold skin, and tugs slightly upwards.

The result is that after several seconds of suspended anticipation, they tumble to the floor in a heap of damp, tangled limbs and blood and saliva and potentially other bodily fluids that would make them gag if they had enough presence of mind to notice and weren't already choking on any number of other unnamed things. Iris ends up flat on her back with her right ankle twined around a leg of the nearest bedframe, one wrist bent awkwardly beneath her body and the other squished between her collarbone and Amy's chin. Amy falls heavily on top of her, diaphragm heaving with another round of retching.

Iris spits a combination of matted blonde and raven hair out of her mouth and shoves Amy's head down and to the side so that she vomits onto her stomach instead of her face. It's a minute before the brunette is able to control herself; a minute that Iris spends staring vacantly at the rough white plaster of the ceiling. When at last Amy rounds off the puking session with a series of rattling, throaty coughs, Iris waits several seconds before pushing the other girl off herself onto her back. For many minutes after that, they lie still, breathing heavily.

"Guess you're not walking," Iris speaks up after a while. A huff comes from somewhere to her left. "Wanna crawl?" Another hefty exhalation. "'Kay. I'll crawl too so you can follow me. You wanna hang on?" This time, Amy manages to produce an actual sound as a response.

"Nyeeaaah."

"Was that a yes or a no?"

"Mmmy don' know."

"Up to you. I'm getting up." She rolls over and steadies herself, and then neither of them speak for the entire forty minutes that it takes for them to army crawl their way across the carpet to the bathroom door. Amy has to stop every few inches to throw up or pass out, alternating depending on her level of exertion. Twice, she remains unconscious for long enough that Iris begins to absently wonder whether she's dead or not, leaving her to vaguely consider whether she feels inclined to do something about it, but both times, Amy manages to revive herself before she has a chance to actually start wondering. They proceed across the filthy carpet in that fashion, Amy occasionally taking hold of Iris's ankle in order to guide herself, and eventually, after more effort than either of them are really able to exert, they end up propped up against the bathroom walls clinging to varying degrees of consciousness.

"Iris?" is the query after an hour or two of silence. The word is startlingly clear compared to what has become Amy's usual garbled speech. Iris rolls her head in the brunette's direction. Her eyes have shut, for which Iris is thankful; she hated the sight of her vacant, dilated pupils.

"Huh?" Amy's face scrunches into something like a frown.

"Whaddapund?"

"What happened?"

"Mm."

"What do you mean?" Amy grunts as she shifts a limb with enormous effort, and Iris swears that the sound has underlying tones of cynicism.

"Whymy ere?"

"Cuz I brought you here."

"Why?" Why, indeed? Iris knew, once upon a time, but she's long since forgotten. She lifts a shoulder in the essence of a shrug.

"Don't know." Another grunt, one that moves Amy's entire body along with it.

"Stupid," she mutters. Iris has enough in her to appreciate that in a far-off universe, she might feel the urge to smile.

"Maybe."

******

They don't end up getting clean until much later; they both manage to fall asleep at some point around hour five of sitting on the bathroom floor, the action due to sheer animal exhaustion rather than a psychological need. They both fight it, in fact, though Iris more than Amy – the brunette has spent hours in familiar darkness. Iris still dreads seeing the backs of her eyelids because not focusing on a specific point in her vision prevents her from blocking out the dark shapes that emerge when she closes her eyes. By the end, though, it's like everything else: no longer something that she can control. So they fall asleep, almost exactly at the same time (though it's difficult to tell, Amy's eyes already being shut), and when Iris next wakes, it's to Amy clumsily patting her cheek.

Her first instinct is to swat it away, which she does, but almost instantly, it returns in full force.

"What?" she mumbles, batting at the offending hand.

"Opn urr eyes, dumbass." Iris almost has the strength to be offended; her eyes snap open, and she finds that she's lying flat on her back with Amy kneeling over her, her face far too close for comfort. She pushes herself up on her elbows, only to fall back with a hiss at the pain in her side. Apparently she's now aware enough to register her own agony.

"How could you tell my eyes weren't open?" It's not a question of even remote importance, but then again, maybe that's the best kind of question to ask. Amy lets out something that could be considered a chuckle.

"Don' fucking know. Urr stupid. 'Snot hard to tell." Iris glares at her, even though she knows that the expression can't be seen.

"Did you just wake me up to insult me?" Amy's not-quite grin is lopsided.

"'Aybe."

"Your speech is clearer," Iris informs her, partially because it's true and partially because she can't think of anything else to say.

"Nnno shit." Iris's glare hardens.

"Why did you wake me?" she demands again. This time, Amy appears to have prepared a response, seems to have even put some thought into her actions (something Iris can't currently comprehend), because she pulls from behind her back a small, half-eaten Twix bar. She presses it to Iris's pallid lips, and her aim, despite her having no vision, is surprisingly accurate.

"Eat." Her voice is still a little gurgly around the edges, but it's getting steadily clearer, something that Iris thinks should probably be cause for celebration, but definitely is not. Celebrating is something that aliens do in universes that have yet to be conceived of.

The chocolate is sticky against her lips. She puffs out a response around it.

"Huh?" Amy presses down a little harder, which results in Iris instinctively opening her mouth. She shudders; she doesn't like the idea that any of her remaining reflexes might involve being susceptible to suggestion. She's had enough of that.

"Eat," Amy repeats, a little more insistently. "Urr gonna pass ou', an I can' geh up by msself." There's definitely some truth to her words, which Iris thinks she could potentially appreciate, but she can't help inserting a little reality into them.

"Why does that matter?" Amy pauses; it's a good question, and she knows it. What does it matter if Iris dies of starvation, leaving Amy with no means of standing up? Where would she go? Who would care if she did? Amy seems to understand the blatant reality of this, as she changes tactics (that she has any ability at all to maneuver concepts is barely even on Iris's radar).

"Urr stomach's 'rowling. It's 'nnoying. I 'ant sleep." That's a more reasonable response, and one that Iris apparently has no argument for, as she voices no further complaints. Amy takes advantage of her silence to shove the candy bar all the way into her mouth. At first, Iris chokes, but then the flavor hits her tongue, and instinct prompts her to chew. It's an odd sensation, admittedly one that she never thought she'd feel again, especially not after consuming meat. It has no potential to feel normal; moving her facial muscles in such a way is so unfamiliar that it almost feels like a spasm. She can't fathom the purpose of this, this grinding up and consumption of something that is apparently nourishing. Why would something like this ever be anyone's priority?

"'Wallow." Iris finds that she needs Amy's reminder; her mouth is filled to the bursting. She obeys, feeling the grainy crumbs squeeze down her throat like chalk. Her immediate instinct is to cough and spit it back up, but, almost as though she is anticipating such a move (perhaps she is), Amy presses a hand over her lips. "'Wallow, Iris." And she does.

Far from a protest or an insult, the first thing that escapes Iris's lips is a confused-sounding, "Where did you get that?" Amy moves back a little now that Iris has choked down the candy.

"Mnnibar. Crawled." For one wild moment, Iris almost wants to laugh; the idea that something so normal as a minibar still exists is insanely, grotesquely hilarious. After a moment, however, the fleeting inclination passes almost instantaneously, to be replaced with a firmer, more practical realization.

"Hold on," she commands, not minding the fact that Amy is quite incapable of doing anything else. She stands, and after a quick moment of feeling quite like she's about to keel over, she manages to gain her balance and exit the bathroom. She returns around a minute later with her hands filled with tiny bottles. Amy frowns in her general direction.

"Wazzat?" Iris sets the bottles down on the counter with a clatter.

"Alcohol," is her response, and Amy attempts a grin that comes out as more of a grimace.

"Exc'llent." Iris almost manages to roll her eyes.

"It's not for drinking." Though as she says it, it occurs to her that that isn't the worst idea in the world, either. The consumption of copious amounts of alcohol right now sounds unbelievably welcoming.

She doesn't quite have the presence of mind to be encouraged by it, but evidently part of the old Iris still lingers somewhere in the very, very deepest regions of her being, because she quickly discards the idea as being impractical. Practicality has virtually no importance, just like everything else, but the feeling is strong enough to dissuade her from drowning all eight miniature bottles of Jack Daniel's in one go.

"We need to clean our injuries." She hasn't forgotten that Amy almost has a stab wound, albeit a very small one, so minor that it can almost be called a scratch. Her thoughts seemingly on a similar track, Amy waves her off.

"Ot me. Urr hurt worse." Iris's hands shake in the processes of uncapping a Bombay Sapphire; her grip slips, and suddenly, a slim, frigid hand is closing around her wrist from down below. Amy's blank eyes aren't even remotely directed towards her, so Iris doesn't know how she can tell that she's faltering, but it's obvious that she can. "Iris."

"It's going to hurt," Iris explains in a blubbering rush, releasing the bottle in favor of gripping the countertop. She doesn't see any need to explain her sudden weakness; in the past few days, they've endured pain; she doesn't want to suffer anymore. At the Lambrick manor, she had almost been reduced to begging for mercy, for an end to her suffering, even knowing that it would have done no good. Now, with the ability to avoid physical pain to a certain degree, she wants to do so.

"Yeah," Amy confirms simply. Iris shudders, the vibration starting in the top of her skull and traveling down through her shoulders to rattle around in her ribcage. The hole in the flesh of her side contracts as though trying to draw in oxygen.

"I don't want to hurt." It isn't her intention to sound whiny and plaintive, but it happens anyway. In her corner, Amy shrugs.

"Urr gonna anyway," she counters, and, though reluctantly, Iris has to concede that she has a point. She shoots the girl a scowl, though she knows the futility of it, and untwists the cap to the Bombay. "Sid down." Iris's brows furrow.

"What?"

"Sid down. Gonna cover urr mouth," Amy elaborates, causing Iris to almost raise an eyebrow.

"Why?" It comes out as a demand; she's not certain that it isn't one. She cringes almost immediately after; watching someone's vacant eyes roll isn't a pleasant spectacle.

"Oo wan' the whole place tuh hear oo?" Iris considers. She doesn't particularly care whether people hear her scream or not – from what she remembers of alcohol in open wounds, she knows she's definitely going to – because she recently spent around seven hours screaming in a room chock-full of people. Granted, those particular people probably hadn't been able to hear her over their own cries of misery, and probably wouldn't have cared about her screams even if they had, but she figures that the same concept applies.

Then again, this is a semi-public place in a world where screaming is uncommon and therefore warrants attention (she can hardly conceive of such a world), and being noticed right now is most definitely not something they need. She thinks, anyways; that's what instinct tells her. She can't come up with any actual reasons why not, but she's been functioning entirely on impulses lately, so it's a matter of little importance.

Her mind made up, she eases herself to the floor and scoots over to sit beside Amy. She lifts her shirt up to tuck it under her chin and leans back against the wall to allow for a somewhat comfortable position; the brunette pats at the air with her hands to locate her. A moment later, one sticky, clammy hand has been clamped over her mouth. Iris looks up briefly to note that Amy's eyes are staring blankly at the opposite wall, and that none of her body besides her hand is remotely engaged in her task. She shrugs, tilts the bottle of gin, and pours it directly into the hole in her flesh. The ensuing agony, searing and delicate, is wonderfully exquisite.

She screams – screams into Amy's hand, digs her teeth into damp flesh, and seizes up so violently that she drops the bottle onto the floor, where it shatters with a pleasant chiming noise. Shards of gritty glass pebble into her skin, leaving dents like freckles all along her upper arms. Amy doesn't move other than to clamp her hand down tighter.

There's something strange about the way that she reacts; she squirms, but doesn't struggle; dislikes the pain, but pays no mind to being held down. It's as though her priorities have somehow become reversed in the past – well, she doesn't know how long it's been. Twenty hours? Thirty? Forty-eight? It's been a while, though she knows it will never be long enough. It's been long enough, though, for her instincts to become inverted. Right now, the pain feels good, even though it hurts her terribly, and she wonders vaguely if it has anything to do with the fact that it's purposeful and self-inflicted. Either way, it hurts, but at the same time, she enjoys it.

This is going to be a very long day.


End file.
